Delusional
by Word-waterfall
Summary: He was thinking wrong thoughs Very wrong thoughts about his best friend of ten years. Very, very wrong, not right at all. He clenched his eyes shut... [One Shot] [Language Warning]


**Title:** Delusional  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** Some Language  
**Words:** About 2,800  
**Summary:** _Very wrong thoughts about his best friend of ten years. Very, very wrong, not right at all. He clenched his eyes shut..._

**Delusional**

Messy haired, and disgruntled, Harry Potter stumbled into the courtyard of his best friend's home, after a particularly messy apparition and untangled himself from his cloak. Apparition, although convenient, it was in the same league as that blasted floo powder in Harry's opinion. He'd much rather walk, but since you can't walk across continents easily, apparition was the only answer. He huffed and his cloak suddenly seemed much heavier and sweltering as the hot British summer contrasted with the cold Russia ice, which he had been immersed in only seconds before.

His black cloak swirled around him, suffocating him in the summer heat, as he steadied himself on his two feet. His dark clothes suddenly seemed like a terrible idea, and Harry wanted nothing more than to tear them off and lay in the sun. But that wouldn't be very professional now, would it, especially with the papers trailing him around almost every corner. He could see it now ' Harry Potter sunbathes Naked outside best friends house'; he frowned and shivered at the image, despite the heat. He turned, struggling to undo to clasp on the damned item of clothing. He stopped wincing as his latest injury twinged; he steadied himself, pushing nausea away.

His job as Auror had been more challenging than he thought; he didn't think that there was that many dark wizards left after the War. He had been wrong, and had paid dearly for his naivety, something Harry was usually not when it came to the dark arts. Oh yes, I was an idiot he thought, clutching at a deep gash on his forearm. This was one of many injuries her had acquired during _another_ encounter with _another_ dark wizard.

He swore as his wand cluttered to the flagstones beneath him, and rolled away silently, he swore again as he dropped to his knees to catch it, kicking over a flowerpot in his efforts. The clay pot cracked, and soil spilled over the gray stones. He swore again, and then again. His best friend certainly wouldn't appreciate his language at all. He laughed silently, before looking to the plant pot in exasperation. Dark soil was everywhere; he jerked his legs away as clearly unsettled plant snapped at his shoes. How he had survived the Auror training was beyond him.

His best friend's front door flew open, an immaculate Hermione Granger stood in the doorway of her home menacingly, her wand pulled and pointing at the intruder. She stared for a second, and then rolled her eyes, lowering her wand, and planting her hands on her hips.

"Harry Potter" She spoke, and to Harry's relief, her voice filled with laughter rather than anger at the scene that unfolded before her "Look at this mess" She flicked her wand at the broken pot, which was fixed instantly; although nothing could be done magically about the spilled soil. Harry grinned apologetically and ignoring his injuries, he started to scoop the dry soil back into its pot, luckily, its occupant; a brightly colored set of snapping dragons was still in one piece, it's angry yapping and snapping showed it really wasn't very happy at the sudden turn of events. Harry almost snarled back at them.

Hermione laughed softly, hurrying over to help him. Harry looked around; her bare feet made quiet pitter-patter noises as she crossed the flagstones. His eyes followed her feet up. It was at that moment Harry paid real attention to what she was wearing. Her bare knees fell to rest on the ground, already becoming dirty with soil, Harry followed her thigh with his eyes, seeing that Hermione was wearing a skirt, a short black skirt for that matter. Hermione hardly _ever_ wore skirts, and if she did it would _never _be shorter than her knee. Harry paused, his soil scooping suddenly hindered by his surprise. Hermione was wearing a very fitting white top that showed her curves modestly, something else she would have considered too daring.

Harry eye's then widened, as he realized he was not only hindered by surprise, but he was also hindered by his arousal. This is not good, he gulped, looking away suddenly and concentrating very, very hard on the slate wall surrounding the courtyard. Still, he couldn't quite get the image of Hermione's smooth, slightly tanned legs out of his head. He found his minds eye recalling the rest of Hermione. The light, loose chestnut-brown curls that bounced around her shoulders, her soulful coffee-brown eyes—he groaned. Suddenly all his injuries forgotten, suddenly the plant was forgotten, all he could think about was his best friend's legs. Wrong thoughts about his best friend's legs. Very wrong thoughts about his best friend of ten years. Very, very wrong, not right at all. He clenched his eyes shut.

He couldn't justify these thoughts. He wasn't allowed to be thinking these _thoughts_ about Hermione. He couldn't have _feelings_ for his friend. That was an unspoken rule of their friendship; Hermione wanted nothing more than friendship. He couldn't have Hermione, no matter how much he wanted her; this was a rule he had set for himself a long time ago. It was a line he couldn't cross, and these thoughts only infuriated him. Stupid line, stupid, damn line. Harry hated lines, only because they _allowed_ progress, he wasn't allowed to take advantage of, unlike circles. Hermione's pretty face flashed through his mind, She wasn't only pretty, she was beautiful, and she was smart—Harry stopped himself. All of these things were true, yes, they were. And they held so much importance, but Hermione was just a platonic friend, that's what they were famous for. There were rules with platonic friendships. He would ruin everything if he kept doing this.

Harry hadn't exactly been deprived when it came to relationships. He had his fair share of heartaches, and had his go at being a heartbreaker. No relationship he had lasted longer than a month; He continually compared his girlfriends to his female best friend until he drove them to the point of insanity. He stopped himself again; he knew no girl was as good as Hermione. _Then why can't we do this?_

Harry had fought hard to keep these thoughts at bay. Hermione wasn't looking for a relationship, and certainly not with him. Never, not with Harry.

"Harry?" Someone was prodding him, "Harry!" He twisted his head towards the voice, his mind working, very, very slowly as his eyes met hers.

"Mm?" He answered, being unable to say much more in his current state.

"The plant is alright now" She was smiling softly; her smile was so much more radiant today, with the sunshine bearing down on their heads. Harry looked to the clay pot, seeing that indeed it was back in place, only a few specks of soil missing Hermione's eye. Immaculate, as always. perfection, always. His eyes drifted down to her hands, dirty with soil, her hands were so small, and dainty and—Damn these thoughts! Now Harry was irritated.

Hermione's shriek filled the air, making Harry start, his eyes looked around wildly, his Auror skills finally deciding to make an appearance.

"Harry! You're bleeding!" Harry's eyebrows knitted, as Hermione grabbed his arm. He moaned in frustration again, but luckily Hermione had put it down to pain. She had let go instantly.

"Come inside" She muttered, standing up "before you bleed to death!" She pulled him up, and pushed him inside her small cottage. She helped him over to the sofa, and deposited him there, before rushing away to grab healing supplies.

Harry huffed and leaned his head against the back of the sofa. Surely she was over reacting, it wasn't that serious, he couldn't bleed to death. At least he seemed to have calmed down now, or so he hoped. He felt woozy, and considered the idea that he had been too distracted (To say the least) To notice the blood soaking through the many layers he wore. Too Distracted by thoughts of Hermione, what had happened to his control? What had caused that sudden _change_? What was all this about? Could he put this down to the summer heat? Could he put it down to her…chosen attire?

His head spun to one side then as he heard Hermione's footsteps clacking down the stairs, a verity of magical healing creams and potions crammed into her arms, a few falling from her grasp and clattering down the stairs. The noise made Harry wince, he was suddenly feeling _very_ woozy, although he couldn't be sure it was his injury that was invoking this response.. Harry pointedly looked away from her, casting his eyes upon the singular picture on her mantelpiece. A picture of himself, Hermione and their other best friend Ron Weasley, who was currently off on Honeymoon with none other than Luna Lovegood. This proved as a healthy distraction for Harry, as Hermione magically healed wound, and various other cuts and bruises he wasn't aware he had.

Her hands were cool and soothing against his skin, she worked with the expertise only a Healer had. Harry had always told her she would make an excellent Healer, and she truly excelled at it. Although Harry had never doubted her, he was very proud of her. He looked at her; her face was a focused frown, her eyes dark with concentration. Harry always came here, rather than the Ministry Hospital Wing, Hermione never protested. He guessed he just trusted Hermione more than any normal Healer. Hermione was far from normal, and she had always stood at his side. At times when even Ron had not, she was defiantly special. Harry had always believed this, and, yes, he sometimes thought of her in _that _way, but didn't all Males think like that about female friends sometimes? It was human nature.

_Yes, but not like you think about her. _A voice called from his mind, his eyebrows knotted again. What was that supposed to mean? He shuddered as Hermione's hand ran across his cheek, gently rubbing a healing salve over a bruise. He opened his eyes, catching hers. She paused, their faces only centimeters away. He couldn't breathe though he knew his heart was still beating, he could hear it pulsing in his ears, speeding up like a freight train.

"What happened to you?" She breezed with some difficulty, her breath hitting his face gently as she struggled to tear her eyes away from his, Harry didn't fail to notice this. One of her hands rested on his cheek, and her other on his knee, they felt hot, like fire through his garments, he was sure he was burning up. Hermione didn't seem to notice, and Harry really didn't care. He could almost taste the orange scent on her breath, the smell of cinnamon and vanilla drifted from her like radiation waves, engulfing him. Overpowering him.

"I got into a fight" He managed to say, his voice merely a whisper. Her voice was just as quiet as she answered,

"Told you that job was dangerous, you wouldn't be told, then again;" She paused to inhale shakily; her next words seemed to take a lot of effort to leave her lips. "You were always stubborn"

Her eyes had moved from his eyes to his lips. Harry was now positive he was crazy, and that if he kissed her now- oh, how much he wanted to kiss her- he would embarrass himself. Even if he could admit he had feelings for her, could Hermione admit she had feelings for him? Did she have feelings? Harry found himself desperately wishing she did, and thinking suddenly became very hard as Hermione's hair fell over her shoulder. Harry couldn't help it, he needed to touch, make sure this was real. With that, his hand was on her back, and then it moved down to rest on the smooth skin of her thigh. All his blood seemed to have taken a vacation from his brain, to his lips.

Hermione's eyes shut, as she inhaled yet again suddenly, shakily. When her eyes opened her eyelids were heavy. When did they get into this position? Harry mused, with one of Hermione's legs between his, and another kneeling at his side on the sofa. When did this happen?

She was closer now. There was no sound, it seemed like time had stopped, and she was so close.

"You're wearing a skirt, Hermione." Harry muttered, desire slowly taking him away from reality.

"I know." Hermione exhaled, her hot breath fanning over his face. "It's hot outside." Her words were slow, and frustrated Harry to the hilt, so much he almost moaned. His lips were parted, and dry, when Hermione's looked so moist.

"Do you know what we're about to do?" She asked, still slowly, still struggling. "We can't-"

"Can't we?" Harry cut across her.

That's when their lips met, hesitantly. It was like trying a new food they had never tasted before. Hermione's lips were soft, Harry felt like a man that had just found an oasis in the desert. They parted, and Hermione looked into his eyes, every single second felt like an eternity. Hermione's eyes searched his emerald green depths, she searched for something, for what Harry really wasn't sure, but whatever she found brought a light to her eye that Harry had never seen before, the mundane task of breathing became very hard. His head tilted as they watched each other. Suddenly the most important thing was to kiss her, to taste her again, to be so close to her not even a dust particle could come between them. This was real, he was kissing Hermione. His best friend. The woman he had protected, that had advised him and whom he had admired. The woman he loved, not so secretly now. This moment had haunted his dreams for years, flashed across his mind every time he came around injured, pitiful. Here she was, living that moment with him. The silent rules set had been smashed and all that mattered was him, her and that they were touching.

Then their lips met again. The kiss was different this time, deeper, prolonged. To Harry it was like he hadn't lived since the war, now he was alive, truly alive. Her tongue slipped into his mouth, dancing circles around his own. Harry felt his eyes slowly close, and his hand drew up to the hem of her skirt. This was the most exquisite feeling Harry had ever felt. He heard Hermione's breathing quicken, and realized how fast his own heart was beating. Pumping blood around his body at a thousand miles an hour.

Her teeth nipped at his lips, extracting a groan, and Hermione let out a soft giggle. Harry had never heard such an entrancing sound. Hermione moved closer as the kiss deepened, straddling Harry on her sofa, her skirt hem dangerously high. The heat beat in through the window, dust dancing in the golden shaft of light, descending on the two so they felt they were in a microwave. Their tongues did a tantalizing, teasing slow dance that drove Harry mad, and as the kiss deepened yet again, the pace speeded up too.

She tasted like oranges, and spices. She reminded him of hot foreign countries. She felt like home and then again, she tasted exotic. She felt right to him, more right than becoming an Auror, more right than vanquishing Voldemort. More right than any other girl he had kissed.

As Hermione's lips left his, and his hand left her thigh to grasp her own hand, and entwine their fingers. He knew; he knew love, he knew he understood. And as she smiled serenely at him, and relaxed into his arms he knew she understood too.

"You're hands are filthy with soil" She laughed, her eyes wide, and her lips swollen from their exercises.

"So are your knees" He grinned, using his free hand to stroke the hair away from her face. He never wanted to move from this _natural_ embrace, where he felt safe, like nothing could touch him. This ever-present hole the war had left inside of him was gone. The house would never mean the same thing to the both of them.

And with Hermione in his arms, Harry was home.

He loved Hermione, he knew it now, fuck platonic, _this_ was love, and he knew it this time. He was delusional, after years of never knowing what love was, and not knowing if it even existed, and not knowing how it would feel when he felt it. He felt delusional, and maybe this was the key, maybe you had to be delusional to see love. He understood now, he understood why he had been so lost. Why he could never feel fulfilled. He understood why his relationships just didn't work. He was holding out for something, someone else. Something deeper. He was waiting for Hermione.

If you had to be delusional to feel as he did…

…Then, damn, Harry loved being delusional.


End file.
